


The Mind is it's Own Place

by BeyondStarlight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, and now it's going to be multi chapter stuff, but then it got out of hand, dont we all, smut happens, starts out innocently, this was a request, what are tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:39:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondStarlight/pseuds/BeyondStarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus agrees to teach Hermione Occlumency. She discovers the benefits of giving in, learns why the castle walls whisper, and finds out love isn't necessarily pretty and teenaged. Meanwhile Severus keeps walking into the past, which tells him to sod off and go live somewhere else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Is Not Lost

**Author's Note:**

> “The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

* * *

 

 

_“All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.”_

_\- Parasise Lost, by John Milton_

 

* * *

 

 

“Got nightmares again?”

Harry jumps at her question and stares befuddled at her for a moment. “Oh, yeah.”

Lately, he looks paler every morning. She runs her hand through his hair, which is messier than ever. The locks she twists around her fingers feel dry and have lost their shine. “You should really eat something.”

Harry hums from behind his glass of pumpkin juice, which he holds before his face as a tiny shield that fends off small talk.

Ron turns to them from across the table, and leans forward to whisper. “There’s no use forcing him to eat. I doubt having You-Know-Who trying to worm his way into your head is appetising.”

Hermione nods stiffly, although she still thinks Harry should eat, appetite or not. But Ron knows more than she does, in this case. He is there with Harry at night, helping him through the visions, which Hermione can’t. She is glad that Ron takes care of Harry when she can’t, and that he stays awake with Harry as much as he can. She is more grateful for it than Harry himself is, as he insists that Ron should just get his sleep.

“I know that, technically, not sleeping means he can’t do anything to you in your sleep, but you’re much more vulnerable throughout the day like this. And you can’t really just stop sleeping at all. Besides, dozing off doesn’t seem to be much safer than actual sleep.”

“Thanks for pointing that out again, Hermione,” Harry grumbles.

So she might have already pointed this out once or twice, but she doesn’t believe he’s actually listening to her. And next to being in more danger, Harry is not exactly easy to handle when utterly sleep deprived.

“Harry, I know it’s hardest on you but, at least if you could Occlude your mind-”

“I’m not asking Snape,” Harry suddenly snaps, drawing the attention of a few other students. Harry pushes his untouched breakfast plate away, drops his head on the table with a faint thud, and groans.

“Hermione’s got a point though,” Ron says, and bites in an apple. It’s not exactly appetising to see him continue talking whilst chewing, but Hermione lets him, perhaps merely because he said she had a point. “You and Snape get angry at each other all the time, and you couldn’t stand him any better before this. What did he do that is so bad you wouldn’t possibly want to return to him?”

The glare he receives in return is enough of a reply.

“Alright so he’s a real git, but he’s not out to murder you. Or at least not as much as You-Know-Who is. Facing an asshole doesn’t sound as bad as having You-Know-Who in your head.”

Harry never went into detail about what happened the last time he had an Occlumency lesson with Professor Snape. Could it be that Professor Snape had crossed the line with Harry in a way he was uncomfortable with sharing with them? But, just like Ron said, what can be more important than learning how to keep He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named out of your mind? Hermione considered that perhaps Harry truly believed Professor Snape only made it worse, but Harry hadn’t actually said anything in that direction. Just that they had had a fight, or something along those lines. And Hermione can’t understand what she is supposed to make of that.

“Harry,” she starts carefully, “We know that you’re having a rough time, but aren’t those tiresome lessons worth the protection in the end?”

Harry shoots up straight then, furious, as though she had struck him. “You know that I’m having a ‘ _rough time’_?” He says, leaning towards her so that she shifts away from him involuntarily. “You don’t have a clue about what I’m going through.”

She clenches her yaw to keep from snapping at him. Haven’t they been trying to help him as best as they can? Hasn’t he been confiding in them for years now? It’s not her fault he keeps insisting they shouldn’t, and it’s not her fault that he doesn’t tell them everything. She almost gets up herself as well, but students are already staring at them. “Well, if you would tell us, we could help.” She hisses.

Harry grits his teeth, but luckily lowers his voice nonetheless. “Oh, right, because all the answers are probably in the library! Tell me when you’ve found a book called ‘ _How to Remove Voldemort from your Mind in 7 Easy Steps’_!”

“Step One,” She snaps and stands up, effectively making him shift back. “Go to Professor Snape and demand him to continue the lessons!”

Ron tries to shush them in vain. Harry only gives her an incredulous look. “If it’s so important to you, why don’t _you_ ask him, huh? See how you like being locked up with him for hours in that cell of his!”

 

* * *

 

“Enter.”

The door creaks briefly when she opens it. Professor Snape’s Office, much like the rest of the dungeons, is poorly lit. A few candles throw long shadows over the rows of jars and bottles, making their contents appear to move. They may not be pretty, but the floating bits and pieces are mesmerising, and she is compelled to take a closer look at them. If only there were more light. And if only she wasn’t here for other, more urgent reasons. Coming from the library, which is flanked by a wall of high windows, it’s almost hard to discern the dark figure that is her teacher. It doesn’t help that he is currently bent over some parchment, black hair obscuring his face, though she supposes he can see her. Last time she was here, she stole some of his ingredients, and even though it was years ago, it still makes her feel like a trespasser. She forces herself to stop fiddling with her sleeve and stares at the long parchment Professor Snape is busy with to keep herself from feeling guilty. The writing looks quite like slanted chicken scratch. She mentally takes back her comment when she sees it’s his own handwriting. It’s not the moment to be rude, even in her thoughts, she chastises herself. But it really looks a lot tidier on the chalkboard.

Finally, he finishes his lengthy sentence and straightens himself. Though he appears completely unsurprised, she is certain he has very few Gryffindor students entering his office. She panics slightly when he doesn’t say anything. McGonagall always invites for tea and a biscuit when she enters her office, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. Then again, was she expecting him to? She clears her throat, and speaks.

“I’ve come to ask you something.”

The steadiness of her own voice surprises her. Professor Snape however, merely raises an eyebrow. Not in a verbal mood, then. Just as she thinks that, he parts his lips and inhales slowly.

“Is it important?”

The question strikes Hermione as absurd. The mere fact that a student dares disturb him should be a dead giveaway. “Of course it is.” What does he think? That her questions cannot possibly be important to him? Does he really think she wouldn’t wait until next class with a question regarding some potion? Okay, truth be told, she has knocked on plenty teachers’ doors to ask questions in between the lessons, but never for potions.

“Say that it isn’t important after all,” he drawls, leaning forward just slightly, “And I decide to take twenty house points for unnecessarily disturbing me,” he pauses, raising his eyebrows in a challenge. “Is it still worth asking?”

Hermione inhales sharply. How dare he? Assume she comes to ask him for help with something trivial. She crosses her arms before her chest, but her frown doesn’t have any effect on him at all. “Who is going to tell whether it’s important or not?”

“Why, me of course.” He looks almost amused. Almost.

“That’s not fair!” she replies indignantly. As soon as the sentence is out, however, she realises that that does not particularly matter to Professor Snape.

“I don’t have to be.” He stresses each word carefully, and simultaneously his expression grows more impatient. “Now, unlike you, I do have important matters that require my attention. I will ask you only once before I-”

“I want you to teach me Occlumency,” Hermione blurts.

For a few seconds, it’s absolutely quiet between them.

“Have you lost your senses?” Professor Snape then snarls at her, rising from his chair. “Barging into my office and demanding to be taught-”

“It’s not like that,” she sputters, sensing that she has mere seconds left to change his mind. “I just thought that-”

“Clearly,” he interrupts her, and moves around his desk to stand before her. “You are not thinking at all.”

She takes a step back involuntarily, but then stubbornly keeps herself standing still, right in front of him. “That’s not true!”

“Too bad you are just as thoughtless and arrogant as your friends when you can’t make a book do the thinking for you-”

“ _Excuse you_?” She snaps, and jams a finger into his chest. “I came here to ask you for help because I need it. And maybe Harry lost his temper and messed up, but I-”

“But you would never lose your temper, would you?” He grabs her wrist. The touch of his cold hand makes her gasp, and she realises what she did. She jammed her finger into a teacher’s chest. Into Professor Snape’s chest. And now his long fingers are clasped around her hand, and she is going to die.

Instead of dying, she gets her hand back with a huff. “Just as I said, thoughtless and arrogant.”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to-”

“Truly,” He interrupts her, and raises his hand to silence her upcoming protests. “I could not care any less about your intentions.”

At the very least, their conversation has lowered in decibels. She licks her lips and straightens herself. “I’m aware that you absolutely don’t have to teach me anything but potions. I’m asking you because we have no other choice but-”

“Who is _we_?”

Hermione frowns, as the answer is obvious. “Harry, Ron and I.”

“Ah, there it is.” He sneers, as though she just proved his point. “Potter is the one who needs Occlumency. Not you, not Mr Weasley.”

She inhales sharply. “Yes. Exactly. Harry is the one who needs Occlumency.” She can barely resist copying his sneer and pose, as he just proved her point. Professor Snape is much less pleased with her comeback.

“Potter had his chance, and he wasted it.” He says coldly. Then he leans forward, and again Hermione resists the urge to step back. “So is this what he does now? Sending his friends to do the work for him? Such a great man.”

It’s nigh impossible for her to keep from shouting again. “Harry didn’t want me to come here at all. I came here of my own accord.” She clenches her hands into fists to keep herself from doing something she, and the entire house of Gryffindor, will undoubtedly regret.

Professor Snape crosses his arms, and his voice lowers dangerously. “Maybe, Potter himself should deal with the consequences of his actions for once.”

Hermione is nearly shaking with anger now. “Don’t you understand that he already is?” She yells, “You-Know-Who is trying to drive him insane or possess him or whatever, he barely eats or sleeps, and he’s constantly afraid of seeing or feeling things he isn’t supposed to see or feel. How can I possibly leave him alone in this?”

It grows very silent then, and she feels a little light in her head. Maybe Professor Snape really wants You-Know-Who to do it. Maybe he really isn’t on their side. This fear, instead of freezing her, makes her feel oddly bold. Because she is right. She is doing what she should do.

“I’m only here,” she continues confidently, despite her thin voice, “Because I want to help him, and because, honesty, I am one of the few who isn’t bothered with teaching it from _you_.”

“How brave,” he grits through his teeth.

“If you don’t want to help, that is your choice,” she says before he can continue. “I believe, however, that we are all on the same side, and that to achieve success, we _need_ each other’s help.”

Professor Snape parts his lips to say something, but then closes them again. His black eyes are piercing her, and she almost fears he’s already trying to read her mind, although she doesn’t feel anything different. She can’t tell what he is thinking at all, and as the silence continues, she grows oddly uncomfortable.

“Leave.”

She stiffens, and clenches her jaw to hold back an immediate protest. “Fine,” is all she grunts as she turns around and leaves his office.

How dare he? How dare he claim to be on their side when, in the moment Harry needs him the most, he fails to help? How dare he even suggest that Harry should deal with this on his own? People were not made to deal with things on their own. That’s why they have the Order of the Phoenix, and even why You-Know-Who has his Death Eaters! She stomps through the hallways, passing a few Slytherin students who watch her in surprise.

 


	2. Farewell Hope, and with Hope farewell Fear

By the time Hermione takes her seat in the potions lab, the entire situation has not gotten much better. Harry isn’t speaking with her, so she has to rely on Ron grunting messages back and forth between them. It reminds her a little of when Harry and Ron weren’t talking to each other, at the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament.

“What are we supposed to start with?” Ron mutters, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She almost wants to confront him about his reading comprehension skills, but they’ve all been high strung lately, and it needn’t get any worse. She helps him through the beginning, and pretends not to see how he passes on her instructions to Harry, who pretends he doesn’t hear or need those. Whilst stirring slowly, and counting clockwise, she takes a few deep breaths. The damps of the Draught of Peace smell of flowers, and inhaling the aroma coats her tongue with something stickily sweet.

She is just about to lower her fire when the unmistakable black figure of Professor Snape appears next to them. “I see that the three of you are set on wasting my ingredients.”

She snaps her head towards him, but holds her tongue. Professor Snape glares at her for a moment, as if daring her to speak. Underneath their desk, Ron gently squeezes her hand. Finally, their professor turns to Harry. “Nice shade of potion,” he drawls, leaning over Harry’s desk. “Or at least it would be, if this were a Draught of the Living Death.”

To Hermione’s great exasperation, Professor Snape does not leave it at that. More unnecessary comments on their potions are tossed around, much to the delight of certain Slytherin students.

“Hermione,” Ron draws her attention. Realising that she has her hands clenched around her ladle, she forces herself to relax and sit back. He nods towards her potion. “It says it should simmer, not boil.” Seeing her yellowish goo bubbling, she gasps and quickly turns down the fire.

It’s the first time in a very long while she has messed up in potions, and she blames Professor Snape himself. As the latter makes his way from desk to desk, he stops once again behind them. “You can throw these away already. You’re only wasting useful time and ingredients.”

Hermione inhales sharply, barely managing to keep her voice straight, “Maybe if you’d help us, instead of-”

“Maybe, if you’d pay attention, instead of chattering, you wouldn’t have detention. But alas, this evening at eight, you can practice silence in my office.”

* * *

 

If there’s one positive thing that came out of the whole ordeal, it’s that she can finally face Harry again. She grabs his arm, turns to him, and takes a deep breath.

“You were right.”

Harry blinks in surprise, but then grins. “It’s almost scary to hear you say that.”

The tension between them melts away, and she sighs with relief. They can’t count on Snape, but they’ll figure out their own way. For now, at least they don’t have to stress over him anymore. “I understand that you’d be glad for those lessons to have ended.”

Harry waves it off, always reluctant on the topic of his Occlumency lessons. Ron, however, has double the joy in seeing the two of them talking again, and eagerly adds to the conversation. As they enter the common room, Ginny and Parvati pick up their topic and join in as well. The latter eagerly contributes to the list of complaints. “Has someone ever introduced him to the concept of personal hygiene?”

Hermione is just about to say that he doesn’t actually smell bad, when Ron comments on his greasy hair. Luckily so, she realises, because she was just about to insinuate that she sniffed her Professor and found him, not unpleasant? She opens her mouth to speak, but hesitates. She had always thought herself to be above these kind of conversations, that served no other purpose than to tear someone down. But then again, there was just so much about their professor that they couldn’t stand. Ron notices her doubt, and pats her encouragingly on the shoulder. “Come on, Hermione, you’re not still defending him, are you?”

“No,” she defends herself, as though he read her mind. As if trying to prove that she isn’t, she adds, “His teaching methods are awful.”

“The entirety of Snape is awful,” Ginny corrects her.

Ron nudges Hermione and laughs, “Teaching methods? You can do better than that.”

Truthfully, there are far worse things she could say. And, actually, she would merely be saying the truth. Emboldened by her friends, she adds, “His mouth is a dentists’ nightmare.”

Harry snorts, although he seems oddly absent. “I’ve seen horses with prettier teeth than his.”

Parvati snarls. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to be so nasty. He’s the worst teacher ever.”

Now there’s an exaggeration. Hermione remembers, among others, the deceitful and utterly useless Lockhart. And then there is of course the handful of teachers who straight up tried to murder Harry.

“And he was nagging that you didn’t get it right, as if everyone else wasn’t lost halfway through,” Ron throws in as well.

Harry grins. “I wouldn’t have gotten past step two if it weren’t for Hermione.”

Now that she can look at him again, she sees how dark the bags under his eyes have become, and how pale his face is. Her resolution to help him becomes even stronger, no matter what it will take.

“He just can’t stand the thought of Gryffindors being good at anything,” Ron says, rolling his eyes, “And then he gave Hermione detention because she dared to speak up.”

Hermione, remembering her detention again, stands up at once. “Sorry guys, I completely forgot about the detention.”

Parvati frowns and checks her wrist watch. “But it’s only five? Doesn’t he usually give detention around eight?”

“She’s probably not done with next week’s reading yet,” Ron grins, earning himself a friendly smack on the back of his head.

“I would still like to do some research for our upcoming Herbology project.” Ron makes a face that says _I told you so_ , which Hermione gladly ignores. She sends a hopeful glance towards Harry, who is studying his hands. “Harry, I could help you with your assignments as well, if you’d like.”

He raises his head, not having noticed her stare, and then smiles faintly. “Thanks.” He gathers his stuff and follows her out of the common room.

They don’t say anything as they make their way to the library, where she immediately occupies her usual spot in the back. Harry follows her, staring at the walls and almost bumping into students. She begins talking, just to fill in the quiet. “For the project, we’ll have to work in pairs of two. You should ask Neville to work with you, he’ll understand if you’re tired-”

“I can handle it,” Harry says, his voice lacking any strength to back it up.

“Okay, but, well,” she sighs, and looks at him. He is stubbornly looking at the books between them, but finally meets her eye. She reaches out for him and takes his hand. “How have you been?”

“Nightmares,” he breathes, and attempts a smile. “I know what you’re thinking.”

She straightens up defensively, but then slumps again. He’s right. She’s thinking about Occlumency, and how he should still try to force Voldemort out of his head. She knows he hasn’t been trying to push him away, but instead has been paying attention to these peeks inside of Voldemort’s mind. But, knowing how predictable she is, she forces herself to say something else. “What did you see?”

He runs his hand through his hair, which is already standing on end. “He’s going to weird places. I think I saw him in Alba- a foreign country.” He glances at her carefully, and she forces herself to keep her judgement to herself. What she wants to tell him is probably going to make him stop talking, so she keeps quiet instead. It works, miraculously, and he continues, “One time, I saw him in an old shack. He held a ring in his hand, though he didn’t put it on. There was something peculiar about it, but I can’t remember what and I’ve never seen it before. It must’ve been really important.”

Hermione mentally goes through a list of magically enchanted rings, but neither of them has outstanding qualities. Rings and other jewellery are mostly used for enhancing magic, or for extra protection. “What did he do with it?”

“Hid it, in the shack. He seemed… relieved.”

They are silent for a while, before they both pick up a book and begin working. Hermione mostly helps Harry catching up with assignments, correcting his charms paper and helping him with transfiguration. They work steadily until it’s time for dinner.

“You know, about the Herbology project,” Harry says, grinning lightly, “I think Ron won’t mind working together with you. And not just because of your grades.”

She blushes. Oh no. Was he saying that Ron wanted to team up with her because of _her_? It’s been a while since she realised she liked him, perhaps as more than a friend. He rarely showed that kind of interest in her, however. When one of them did try to move things towards a more romantic direction, it had often ended up coming out completely wrong. Perhaps now they could try again?

“He’s not as smart as you, but he’s got a good heart,” Harry says softly.

“I know,” she says automatically, although she doesn’t think about him as ‘less smart than her’. “I mean, he’s just smart in different ways. He knows a lot of other stuff that I don’t.”

“Luckily, love isn’t anything logical.” Harry smiles, and then looks away too quickly for her not to notice. The grin that spreads on her face makes him grow several shades redder. “Don’t,” he says, but it’s already too late.

“Such wisdom, Harry. Pray tell, does it come from experience?”

Harry groans, and hides his face behind his hands, shaking his head. She grants him mercy, for now, but her curiosity, once peaked, rarely backs down from anything.

After a few hours, and quick dinner, Hermione bids her farewells and treads down to the dungeons. As her knuckles knock the door, the relief of the day dissipates, and tension returns. It’s precisely eight when she enters his office. Professor Snape is standing in front of his desk, leaning against it. She had expected him to sit in his chair, as he usually does, and wonders whether they will be going elsewhere. With a fluent move of his wand, he closes the door behind her. The room is entirely quiet, until he gives a small flick of his wrist again, and the sound of the lock turning resonates over the stone walls. She stiffens.

“Sir?”

“What do you know about Occlumency?”

* * *

 

Albus stands at his window, peering over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, where the sun is rising. He runs his hand through his beard in a pensive gesture. It is much too early for Severus to attempt deeper thought, so he merely watches him over the rim of his teacup.

“Severus,” he says softly. “I am disappointed in you.”

He steps away from the window to face Severus, who turns his head away. He lowers his teacup, holding it in his lap. The hot porcelain burns the palms of his hands, and he clenches them around it. As always, his morning is awful. He doesn’t know what he expected. Careful to keep his voice cool and low, he meets Albus’ clear blue eyes before speaking. “Sorry to have been a disappointment once again.”

Albus frowns, and they watch each other for a long moment. Severus can clearly imagine how Albus is going through a mental list of replies, deciding which one will have the desired effect. “You are not a disappointment, Severus. You are not your actions.”

He leaves a pause, willing the words to sink in. Severus huffs. The day he will allow Albus the satisfaction of seeing his words matter to Severus, is the day he will be cold and dead in some bottomless pit. He takes another sip of tea, scorching his tongue in an effort to wake himself up. “Of course.”

Dumbledore sighs heavily, and a part of Severus feels childishly victorious. _There_ , he thinks, _that’s what you get for ruining my morning_. “I’m merely trying to reprimand you. I asked you to teach Harry Occlumency and-”

“And somehow, I don’t think you’re telling him he’s a dis- he has disappointed you.” Severus puts his cup back down in the saucer.

Albus shakes his head slowly, and finally moves to sit down across from him. For a moment, neither speak. The weight Albus’ stare is almost unbearable. Of course it is Severus who disappointed him. It’s not as if Albus’ golden boy can possibly do anything wrong. Just like his father, and the entire clique. And Severus never belonged, and will never belong, to that group of people whom Albus holds especially dear.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

Severus clenches his jaw. Albus sighs.

“If you will not tell me, that is your choice. However, I placed the responsibility of Harry learning Occlumency in your hands. It will cost us too much, if we grant Voldemort that connection to him.”

At the sound of the Dark Lord’s name, Severus flinches. He can feel the shiver of magic running through his body. The dark ink etched into his skin tingles with the sound of its master’s name. He glares at the Headmaster, who looks calm and collected as ever. “Very well. I will assure no such connection will take place.”

Albus inclines his head slightly, and Severus returns the gesture. He leaves the Headmaster’s office without another word. And, once outside of the office, he has to face his new dilemma.

Granger or Potter.

Ironically, the one trick that has often helped Severus decide quickly, is one he learnt from Albus. While preparing his classroom for the next class, he plucks a knut out of his pocket, and throws it in the air. Heads for Granger, tails for Potter. He catches the knut, and pockets it without even looking at the outcome. In the split second it was in the air, he knew which side of the knut he wanted to see up.

And so, he watches Ms Granger file into the classroom together with her classmates, unaware of the detention he already has assigned to her.

* * *

 

“What do you know about Occlumency?”

Ms Granger’s eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights. Considering the amount of thought he spent on this evening’s planning, it’s almost easy to forget she doesn’t have a clue. Of course she wouldn’t have a clue; the minds of Gryffindors are too literal and truth-bound. For a moment, the two of them just stare at each other. Waiting.

Then she licks her lips, and straightens up. He already knows what she’s going to say, but holds his reply back, just enough to allow her to prove his expectations.

“Occlumency is the act of magically closing one’s mind against-”

“Not the textbook definition,” he interrupts her, dryly. “I already assumed you were capable of reading, and memorising, and thinking only in passages quoted word-for-word.”

Is he surprised that she started quoting the textbook perfectly? Not in the least. Is he disappointed? By default. She raises her chin a little, looking quite like her typical know-it-all. “You asked me-”

“Listen, Ms Granger,” he stops her. “I have neither the patience nor the energy to first teach you how to behave. If you want to learn anything, you need to be quiet, accept when you are wrong, and think before you speak.”

She gives him a startled look, and inhales sharply. Her words die on her lips, however, albeit reluctantly. Finally, he thinks to himself. Perhaps she _can_ learn something after all. The disastrous lessons with Mr Potter still fresh in his memory, he prays Merlin will help him come out of this attempt without any more _accidents_.

“So,” he resumes, “What do you know about Occlumency?”

She frowns. Silly girl. He almost sends her out of his office right away. _This answer decides_ , he thinks, _if she answers this wrong, I will send her away_. Truly, he does not wish to waste time trying to teach her how to understand basic principles of learning. He does not have that sort of time to waste. Mr Potter, certainly, could not understand anything. Ms Granger, maybe.

“I don’t understand your question.”

Ah, and there he had been hoping to send her away. But no, hoping never does him any good. Now he has to create more obstacles for her, so that maybe one of them will drive her off enough for this to be over with. The hardships of being a teacher.

“Stop thinking about books as the answer to everything. Do you know anything from personal experience? Second-hand experience? Questions, doubts or interpretations?”

She remains quiet again, studying the floor. He glances at the unoccupied chair in front of him, in which his guests usually sit. In the back of his office stands a box of potion samples. If only he had just told her to go through those. Instead, he’s trying to teach her, and she’s trying to learn. How dreadful. But there is at least one thing that he hopes to figure out in this so-called detention, whether it ends in an Occlumency lesson or not.

“Harry said it’s all about clearing your mind,” she begins tentatively. “Not showing emotion-”

“Not feeling emotion,” he corrects her automatically, but then holds back from saying more. She is visibly uncomfortably under his unwavering stare, but not for the reason he fears she might. Apparently, Mr Potter did have the decency not to spread word of their little _accident_.

“I’ve always wondered, if you don’t remember something, can someone who uses Legilimency still get to that memory?”

No, he concludes, she’s already too comfortable to know any details about what happened between him and Mr Potter. The relief isn’t grand however, as he now has an overachieving Gryffindor to deal with.

“Keep your wonderings to yourself,” Snape brushes her off. If she succeeds in that, she might actually find out the answer for herself. He does not tell her this though. Her lips twitch, but before she can say more, she restrains herself. Maybe it’s his intense look that gives away how much he wants her to blurt out nonsense again. If only she’d break the rules enough to give him a reason to send her away.

Ms Granger wants to say something, but yet again succeeds in keeping silent. And he knows what she wants to say. That he had just told her to share her thoughts, and then shut her down for doing exactly that. But if he was going to suffer through these lessons, so would she.

“Clear your mind.”

“How?”

He glares at her. If she would have asked or said something stupid, he could have at least shut her down. But no, she had a valid question, and nothing bothers him as much as a valid question to which, for him, the answer is obvious.

And yet, explaining it is a lot less obvious.

“Stop thinking,” he says coolly. “Stop feeling.”

Just empty your mind, he thinks. She gives him a startled look. Not familiar with the concept, apparently. It’s hardly surprising. He supposes her head is constantly swarming with thoughts.

“Give me your wand.”

She perks up. “Excuse me?”

He narrows his eyes. And nods towards a shelf next to her. As long as she can’t use it, he is at least a bit safer. “Your wand, Ms Granger. Put it aside.”

She obeys, and he aims his at her, slowly. Her eyes are pinned on the point of his black wand, and he can see the panic fluttering across her face. “I’m not sure-”

“Look at me.”

And she looks up. Her eyes are clear and brown, alight with determination.

“Legilimens.”

The flur of thoughts and emotions overwhelms him. Legilimency never came as naturally to him as Occlumency. He catches flashes and sounds that don’t add up, before everything distorts, as though he’s hearing it from behind thick glass.

Ms Granger sways, and instinctively, he reaches for her. She leans onto him, blinking furiously. Her eyes dart around the room, seeing things he does not. He gently eases her into a chair and gives her a few more seconds to recover. Potter had been sitting in a chair the first time they had done this, he remembers. Ms Granger should have been sitting as well. He does not take his own forgetfulness lightly.

“What happened?” she breathes. Her hands run though her hair, and she rubs her temples briefly. There are headache-relieving potions in his drawer, as usual, but it’s too soon still to pull those out.

“The body’s natural response to such intrusion is to black out. Useful, sometimes, but highly dangerous when you need to stay conscious.”

“Oh.”

“Prepare yourself,” he says, and slowly points his wand at her again. She nods, and faces him. At once, he can see the strength return to her, lighting up her eyes. “Legilimens.”

He dives into the cluttered phrases and snippets of memories behind her eyes. They last longer this time. He is peering through her eyes into her mind. It’s still too panicked and feeble for him to control, but soon he will be able to pick it apart. Her resistance is minimal. If only he could settle enough to latch onto a memory-

“Has someone ever introduced him to the concept of personal hygiene?”

Ms Patil’s face floats in between them, followed by that of others. Through the memory of the common room, he can still see Ms Granger’s eyes, widening. He catches her own voice.

 “His teaching methods are awful.”

The crackling of the fire in the common room resounds between them. The pale face of Potter. The youngest Weasley, rolling her eyes and smirking. “The entirety of Snape is awful.”

The sharp red tones of the room falter for a moment, wavering back into the darkness of his own office. They gain power simultaneously, Severus in accessing her mind, and she in blocking it. Unfortunately for her, Severus has far more experience to back him up with. The warmth of the Gryffindor common room returns, along with the background hum of students, and again, familiar voices.

“His mouth is a dentists’ nightmare.”

“I’ve seen horses with prettier teeth than his.”

“I don’t understand why anyone would want to be so nasty. He’s the worst teacher ever.”

The dark room snaps back into place. Ms Granger is sitting in the chair, panting, and pressing herself back into it. Her face is pale, yet her cheeks are furiously red. In a very thin and breathless voice, she begins to speak, “I’m so sorry-”

“You will be.”


	3. This horror will grow mild, this darkness light

“My apologies.”

It takes a moment before Hermione registers the words. She blinks feverishly as her memories untangle and the present world begins to take shape around her. The clearest, and nearest, shape is that of her Professor before her, kneeling and reaching out a hand to hold her chin. She stares past him, unable to look him in the eyes. Around them, the many colourful bottles and jars of his office come back into view. Except for her throbbing head, and the twisting sickness in her guts, she is mostly disappointed. In herself, that is.

When she realises her professor has stopped performing Legilimency, and is merely observing her, she lowers her gaze. It has been going good, the past two weeks, or good enough at least. And now she fainted again. How pathetic.

“I should think one hour will suffice for tonight.”

“No,” she breathes, and shakes her head. The room spins around her as she does, and she closes her eyes for a moment. No headache comes close to the one that she has throughout these lessons. She inhales deeply, mentally preparing herself for another round. “We did three hours last time.”

“Last time you were in better shape.”

There is no dismay in his voice, merely a sigh that follows. She rubs her eyes until they are stinging. At the very least, his office chair is so uncomfortable and hard that she will most definitely not doze off in it.

“Take this.” A cup of tea is pressed into her hands. She breathes in the aroma of chamomile. It is the first time they have done anything else in his office but discuss or practice Occlumency. A wicked thought overcomes her, to ask him – merely as a joke – whether it is laced. But, since she does not possess the strength to laugh, and her potions professor does not possess the humour to appreciate jokes, she sips her tea quietly.

Naturally, it is laced.

She slowly lowers her cup. “No offence, sir, but I can tell this is sweetened with neither sugar nor honey.”

“I’m aware,” he drawls. It sounds oddly familiar, by now. “You don’t think you’re here for some tea and a biscuit, do you?”

Oh, yes, of course not. What an abhorrent thought, tea between student and teacher. She licks her lips, which are sticky with its taste. It’s not half bad, actually.

“Drink it. Then go to your dorm,” he brushes her off, settling down on his side of the desk. He bends over a few scattered assignments and picks up a quill. Without raising his eyes, he adds, “If you are in such a state by next time, don’t even bother coming down. Unless you enjoy the mundane physical labour of pulling legs off of dead insects.”

She snorts, but quickly recovers herself. God, she really is tired. Taking another long sip from her tea, she gazes over the parchment between them. Her tired eyes require a while before they can decipher some of the content upside down. “Is that an essay on the use of wands in potions?” Her voice sounds soft with sleep even to herself. She does not meet Professor Snape’s eyes on purpose, although he is diligently scribbling remarks in the margins.

“I don’t doubt your willingness to prove yourself – although to whom and what for remains a mystery – but these extra assignments are only for pupils who need to make up for their laziness, their misbehaviour, or their idiocy.” He pauses a moment to draw several sharp lines through an entire paragraph, before silently adding, “Or all of the above.” It is almost as though the parchment itself has to pay for its student’s flaws, for he writes so briskly and hard that Hermione is surprised it does not tear. He slides it aside and moves to the next in a swift and automatic motion. “I do not think you will have the, ah, privilege, of ever writing this type of essay yourself.”

His voice is lulling, so low and smooth. She leans in a little, or perhaps it’s just her head starting to drop, heavy with sleep. “I didn’t know wands could be used in potions making.” She mumbles, half to herself. “No foolish wand waving.” She smiles absentmindedly, recalling her Professor’s dramatic first-year speech. It almost makes her giddy to think of how peculiar a teacher must be to have his own opening phrases.

“It’s an art in itself, but not recommended because of wood-types and cores and what not.” He answers, also half talking to himself.

Hermione thinks he might have said more, but it only serves to lull her to sleep. A pleasant, warm fog settles in her head. Her heavy eyelids close, and she sighs contently before sinking away in a dreamless sleep.

\--

Severus glances up briefly from the awful essay underneath him, and remains completely still for a few seconds. Before him, Ms Granger has slumped in her chair, head leaning back and lips slightly parted. She sighs heavily, as though she were in the middle of a deep sleep, and had been lying there innocently for quite some time now.

The nerve.

“Ms Granger,” He addresses her sharply, loud even to his own ears. She does not so much as stir. She does, however, smack her lips. He raises up from his chair, already imagining the look of utter embarrassment on her face, and her hasty pardons and retreat. Slamming both of his hands on his desk, he calls her name again.

Ms Granger inhales deeply, and shifts, sliding gradually down the chair. He grits his teeth, and lets out a noise between a groan and a growl.

He should have known she could have done with a lesser dose. Since he is not medically qualified, he lacks both the precise knowledge of dosage, and the permission to lace a student’s tea. He has no qualms about this, however. She needed sleep, so he gave it to her; it is as simple as that. In what way he achieves his means, is of far less importance. An opinion which he and Minerva very frequently debate.

For a silent while, he studies Ms Granger’s sleeping figure. Being alone with her in his dark and tranquil office, and eying her without her knowledge, draws forth a series of feelings he did not expect. She is entirely defenceless to him, and too far away to realise, or mind. The only sounds are her regular, deep breath and the water of the lake behind his walls. He shakes his head, as though physically discarding these thoughts. In the past two weeks, he has seen memories of her, far more personal than this moment could ever be. Still, he has the distinct feeling that he should not be doing what he is. There is something inappropriate in this, a voice in his head reminds him. A voice that sounds very much like dear McGonagall. However, doing what he shouldn’t be doing is second nature to him, if not downright his most gifted talent.

The thud of her body dropping onto the floor rouses him. Honestly, he could tell she was sinking away further and further, but why stop her? Now, awakened from his thoughts, he leans over his desk, but doesn’t get his hopes up. Naturally, she is still sound asleep. Deciding it has been enough for one night, he swiftly walks around his desk. She lies crumpled on the floor, and he had been thinking that his extremely uncomfortable chair would do the trick to keep students from dozing off. He would have to invest in an even worse chair now. Ms Granger, however, lies perfectly peaceful on the cold, hard floor. Her hair falls around her face in a dark halo of curls, framing her delicate features. She could be lying in a ditch during the winter, and sleep safely to death.

“Weepey.”

With a crack, Severus’ personal house elf stands next to him. Out of habit, the creature folds its chipped ears back, grabs them with his bony fingers, and pulls them down even more. Whether it is an inborn trait or not, there is something about Weepey that makes him appear to be pouting constantly. “Sir Professor Snape called Weepey,” he says, with a deep bow.

“Take this girl to her bed, and do it without anyone else noticing. Make sure her curtains are drawn.” He looks at the girl, blissfully unconscious at his feet. Oh, how he’d enjoy for her to wake up now, and scurry to her feet, bright red and apologising. He has the malicious urge to prod her with his foot and rouse her from her peaceful state, but ignores it. All in due time, pettiness and pestering alike. “She should not wake up as you apparate her. She is in good enough health, do not tell Poppy, or anyone else about this.”

“Very well, sir Professor.” The elf’s voice quivers, for whatever reason. He glances at Ms Granger, carefully picking up her hand as though his nimble fingers might break her skin. Then, suddenly, and highly unexpectedly, he drops her hand. “She is the young Ms Granger!” He squeaks.

“Yes,” Severus snaps, impatient with the creature. As useful as Weepey proves himself to be at times, he is also incredibly _reactive_. “What is wrong?”

Weepey’s eyes are brimming with tears now, and Severus is tempted to just walk out of his office. There is no living creature on earth, students and house elves alike, which should cry near him. For Weepey to be assigned as his person elf is either cruel coincidence, or just Dumbledore being Dumbledore. “No, s-sir Profess-ssor,” he mumbles softly, “Young Ms Granger is, is wishes to do- do away with elves and- and with W- Weepey,”

After the incoherent sentence, even less distinguishable words follow, frequently interrupted with sobs. Severus waves him off, growing angrier with each stuttering. “She is unconscious. She can’t do anything. No one is doing away with you.”

The last phrase makes Weepey look up with such gratitude, that Severus has to add a “Shut up now, and do as I told you.”

\--

As Severus lies in bed that night, he finds himself wishing it was his turn to patrol the hallways. At least he wouldn’t be pointlessly staring at the ceiling for so long. He would call it “practicing Occlumency”, if he would fancy lying to himself. What he feels, however, has been entirely familiar to him, long before he as much as heard of Occlumency. He lies on his blankets, the cool dungeons numbing his toes and fingers, whilst the heat of his transpiration is trapped between his back and his bed. He watches the streaks of light play over his ceiling, which steal into his room through the wide window that separates his private quarters from the lake. Sometimes he wishes he could be on the other side of that window. They say drowning is an awful way to go.

The taste of salt. Water burning in his throat. His hair sticking to his forehead. Hands clawing at his ankles, grabbing him. The distinct feeling of a nose, crushed underneath his heels.

Severus shudders, and the hot blankets underneath him press into his back. _I’m in my room_ , he thinks, and repeats the phrase like a mantra to hold on to. His eyes watch the breaking of the light on his ceiling, trying to see it, through the haze of something much darker, which edges forwards from the back of his head.

Every once in a while, a tingling feeling surges forth from his left arm, trailing through his entire body, like invisible fingers tickling his skin. He had forgotten this sensation. Forgotten about the ink etched into his skin, sinking until it merges into his bones and taints him deeper, much deeper, than any injury can. And yet that’s what it is. A gaping wound. It stretches him open, allowing a stream of dark magic in. It roams his body, simmers just beneath his skin.

But he has gotten used to it once, and he will now.

He grips his arm, covering the mark, as if he is trying to physically stop the shiver of magic coursing through his veins. His fingers are numb and cold. He can feel the ghost of a hand wrapping around his arm in familiar fashion as his own, but this hand is more calloused, the fingers thicker and stronger. It pulls him.

Smoke in the air and smoke coating his tongue. Wet rags clinging to his body. A ghost in the mirror, dressed in bruises and bones. A deep, low voice, shouting into his ear. _Failure. Failure. Failure_. A blow so sharp he feels only the dizziness it leaves. His father’s nose, his yellowing teeth. The sound of Severus’ head hitting the wall, smothered by the wailing of his mother. _Not my son_. The comfort of the cold floor.

In slow, automated motions, Severus raises himself out of his bed. His numb feet carry him to the unoccupied, dusty corner in his room. The walls are rough, scratching his skin as he presses himself against them and lowers himself. He leans his forehead against the cold walls and closes his eyes. With his knees pressed to his chest, the shaking of his hands lessens, and the burning of his skin softens.

Heavy footfalls on the creaky floorboards. The sharp smell of alcohol burning in his nose.

He snaps his eyes open. _I’m in my room. In my private quarters. In Hogwarts._ His eyes dart through his room, trying to find those things that remind him. His one-dose vials of sleeping draught and headache relief potions, cluttered on his nightstand. Empty bottles that lay kicked under his bed, which Weepey isn’t allowed to clean up. Thrown over his chair is his warmest winter cloak, bottle green with silver fasting, which Lucius gave him for his birthday last year. Nearby, on his desk, lies the locket Dumbledore once gave him once, which glows faintly.

He forces himself to stand up, and reaches for the cloak, which is soft and impeccably clean underneath his fingers. The Malfoys. They insist on celebrating his birthday every year, yet the memories are bleak to him now. It’s been a while since last January. They care, he insists to himself, God knows why. But it brings little relief. The locket weighs heavily in the palm of his hand, dark and bronzed in colour, containing, on the inside, an ever changing photo of the face of the person it’s wearer needs most. He puts it down, carefully, knowing whom he’ll see inside. He can’t bear the thought of her now, can’t gather the strength to look in her green eyes.

Enough pointless sentiment, he tells himself, although his body feels too numb for it to resound. But his mind is cleared of the hauntings of his past, at least. His thoughts wander to more practical manners. Such as Ms Granger, who appears to have a little issue with sleep herself as of lately. Much like Potter. When will his work with Ms Granger pay of, and be passed on to Potter? Certainly, if her sleep deprivation continues, and Weepey has to apparate her out of his office again, the work will turn out fruitless. On that note, he summons the elf again.

Weepey is euphoric, to say in the least, to be of use twice in the same day. Severus makes a mental note not to call on the elf in the coming week, to temper that down. To the elf’s misfortune, all Severus asks of him, is an explanation as to why he thinks Ms Granger would want to “do away” with him, and even more so, why he would think Ms Granger to be allowed to do so.

Throughout hearing the story of Ms Granger’s “house-elf-freeing” attempt, including the self-knitted hats, he sits down comfortably on his bed and shakes his head slowly. Ms Granger, brilliant witch with the highest marks of her year, handing in papers trice the required size, comes up with something as ridiculous as knitting hats for elves. He doesn’t know whether to groan or laugh. At last, his mind settles on a mere _silly girl_.

“And Ms Granger attempted S.P.E.W,” Weepey says, an expression of horror crossing his face. His nails rake over his ears, which he is holding down again. Although his cheeks are wet, Severus can tell the elf is not merely upset, but getting all wired up about retelling the incident.

“S.P.E.W?” Severus drawls, smirking, “Tell me more.”

\--

She is standing in Professor Snape’s office. He talks to her, but she cannot make sense of his words. He grows angrier, and she grows more desperate, unable to make out anything intelligible from his words. The walls of the room morph into those of her living room- no, a living room. Her parents are there, putting ornaments onto the Christmas tree, but then they stop, and gape at the two figures who have just appeared in their living room. Professor Snape grabs hold of her arm, nails digging into her skin, and stares at her with an unreadable expression. She is aware that she is crying, but does not know why. Her parents are talking in rapid whispers to each other, and cower back slowly. She reaches out for them, and tries to reassure them that nothing is wrong. Upon hearing her voice, they begin shaking, and fall to their knees, pleading incoherently. The words out of their mouth sound foreign, but begging, and they are crying, and hurting. She pulls her hair frantically, and then a green light flashes through the living room, much too long, and the Christmas tree swings and falls down with a loud crash, ornaments scattering across the floor. She turns to Snape, who has his wand out, and wears a perfectly calm expression. She grabs his robes and shakes him, crying out to him, but then he pushes her off, and holds his wand mere inches from her face. Instinctively, she reaches for her own wand, and as she points it at him, a green light flashes once again. She cries out, and before her, Snape falls onto the floor. Yet he is not dead, merely shaking, crawling towards her, and for the first time she can understand what he is saying.

“Severus, please don’t,” he begs Hermione.

And in that moment, it makes perfect sense. But it doesn’t last, as she suddenly starts awake, sitting upright in her bed. She is gasping for air, wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Hermione?” Parvati pulls her curtains back slowly. “Are you alright?”

She stares at Parvati in bewilderment. For a fleeting moment, she is confused at being called Hermione, but it passes before she can mind it.

“Why are you still wearing your uniform?”

Running her hands over her tie, Hermione realises she is indeed wearing her uniform, and she has no idea why. Her shirt is sticking to her sweaty back, and her cloak is twisted around her. She pulls it off with trembling hands, accepting Parvati’s help. Cold air embraces her, and she inhales deeply. “Must’ve been tired,” she breathes.

“You’ve been having nightmares, lately.” Parvati sits down at her bedside, eying her closely. Hermione wishes she would leave, as she can’t possibly explain her dreams, which dissolve into forgetfulness within minutes of her waking up. “What’s been going on?”

“Just stressed.”

Had it been Ron or Harry by her side, they would have been more or less satisfied with such an answer. It makes her sad, to know she could push them away so easily. Then again, maybe she would even have trusted them with the contents of her nightmares. Parvati, however, is not as easily appeased, and frown in a way that reminds Hermione of her father. The thought of her parents causes a new wave of nausea.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Parvati finally says, although her tone indicates slight offence, which Hermione feels very sharply. Before she can apologize, Parvati glances around to make sure no one is visibly eavesdropping, and leans in. Her voice is barely louder than a whisper. “You keep saying the same things in your sleep.”

A shiver runs down Hermione’s back. Her nightmares, as clear and sensible as they may be in her subconsciousness, detoriate rapidly from the moment she rouses from them. Her hand reaches absentmindedly for her lips, which taste sweet, for some reason. “What do I say?”

Parvati stares at her intensely for a moment, and the deep, slow breaths around them seem to grow quieter as she does. She mouths, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please. Stop.”

Hermione shudders. Her head grows light at words, yet she knows not how they entered her mind, or what they mean.

“It’s always some of those. You’re always begging, crying out, or even screaming,” Parvati continues. “I sleep so light that I put a silencing charm over your bed the first time it happened, but then I saw your curtains rustling and, well, I took a peek.”

Parvati blushes lightly at her own intrusion, though the intense look of her eyes tells Hermione that she feels her actions were the right ones. It feels very alien to hear her talk, because she knows they’re talking about her but Hermione keeps thinking it’s someone else. She doesn’t beg or scream in her sleep, she never did more that talk nonsense, as Ginny points out every morning over summer. “What did you see?”

“You were,” Parvati glances down, searching for the right word, “writhing.”

“Writhing?”

“I thought you were ill at first, or at least in terrible pain.”

Hermione swallows. Her fingertips feel hot, as though she dragged them over the surface of her sheets, and some of her muscles are trembling still.

“I can tell that you have no more clue to this than I do,” Parvati concludes, “but you should really talk with someone. Your friends, or Madam Pomfrey.”

All Hermione can manage is a feeble smile. Another time, she will express her gratitude for Parvati’s patience and help. But now, she could use a little solitude. Her curtains close again, and Hermione listens to the rustle of Parvati getting back into her own bed. She throws off her sheets, and stares blankly at her shoes.

The mystery of how she got in bed without undressing first is suddenly much less weird. And yet, much more doable to think about. Unwilling to fret over a nightmare until dawn, she forces herself to recall the previous evening. There is frighteningly little she remembers. The Occlumency lesson was going dreadful, to the point where she fainted. Then there was that overly sweet tea, yes, he said she should go back to her dorm room and sleep. Had it clouded her mind so badly that she can’t even remember leaving and making her way to her dorm? It was possible, she thinks, still staring at the shoes she definitely forgot to take off.

Breakfast passes in a daze, and she wonders whether it is because of the potion she had taken, or because she did end up fretting over the nightmare until dawn. It is not her fault, that she sleeps so ill. Ever since the Occlumency lessons started, the nightmares have been keeping her awake at odd hours. Yet they fade from her memory too quickly each time. In the moment after her waking, she wishes only that they disappear forever. Though afterwards, hunched over her morning coffee, she tries hard to remember anything of it.

Harry and she make for a fun pair at the breakfast table. Both pale and restless and hardly approachable. The common factor at blame is Occlumency. She dreads telling Professor Snape about this, since her lessons have been going reasonably well, and she can sometimes succeed to push him out pretty decently. She can’t stop now. Glancing at Harry from the corner of her eyes, she decides that it’s with him that she should first talk.

The two of them skulk behind as they make their way to the greenhouses. Whispering just below the sound of the general hubbub, they agree to meet up in the library later that day.

Entering the greenhouse, she takes place next to Ron, whom she notices is rather pale, and bouncing almost excitedly from his heels to his toes. Whilst Professor Sprout addresses her pupils, she whispers to him whether he is okay. His response is a weird noise, and a forcedly broad smile, that she supposes is meant to come across as affirmative. She merely nods in response, her mind too tired and unwilling to bother. While Professor Sprout explains the Herbology project, her mind is having a hard time keeping up. The mornings after Occlumency lessons are a close second on her list of “worst things about learning Occlumency”, right after the headaches. It feels as though her head has been abused, and needs a few days of rest before it can resume proper functionality. A few days is all she has in between her lessons, though. It does not help that, behind her, Ron keeps shifting, and clearing his throat, and sniffing his nose.

“And finally,” Professor Sprout finishes her summary, “I will team you all up in pairs of two.”

Many students, including Hermione, perk up at this. Some groan out loud or ask whether they can’t choose their own partner, but she shakes her head with a firm smile. “No, no, I’ve seen the same faces paired up for years. Don’t be cross with me now, this is not a sleepover but an assignment.”

And so, after ten minutes of students crying out in disappointment, Hermione ends up in a team with Malfoy. The latter approaches her with the usual air of haughtiness, and she automatically raises her chin too.

“Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

Before either of them can say anything, and perhaps luckily so, Professor Sprout produces a bag of folded papers. “Each of you will pull one of these, so every team will end up having to take care of two plants.”

Hermione’s hand shoots in the air. “What do we do if both of us pull the same plant?”

She smiles at her, as though she had been expecting Hermione to ask this, and was proud to see she was right. “The papers are blank now, the plant you should take care of will reveal itself as you open it. As a team however, you are both responsible for your plants.”

And so it happens. Malfoy unfolds his first. After rereading it a few times, he turns to her. “What did you get?”

She turns to him and blinks sleepily. If there’s one positive thing about having your mind clouded over, it is that it’s hard working yourself up over someone. “Devil’s Snare.”

“How peculiar,” is all he answers. He puts his paper down on the table, and she knows that he expects her to pick it up. Or ask him. It reminds her a little of Professor Snape, and his endless expectations. _Typical Gryffindor_ this and _silly girl_ that. Over time, she mastered a handful of tactics to communicate with the Potions Master, which so far yielded better results. Silence, for one, is key. If Malfoy is anything like Professor Snape, perhaps she should not bend to his expectations either.

“Not going to ask what I have?” Malfoy suddenly says, cocking his head slightly.

She almost smiles, but catches herself. Who’s predictable now? She keeps her voice level as she answers, trying to imagine what she would do if it were Professor Snape she was talking to. Only, of course, with Malfoy, she allowed herself more freedom. She did punch him in the face, once, and such little moments of glory never lose their imprint – at least not on a social level. It takes her mind a long time to put together words into a coherent sentence, however, and Malfoy interprets her silence as her answer.

“Dittany.”

No, she thinks then, she will never understand the Slytherin language. How did blatant silence and disinterest get the answers out of him? She is learning a new form of communication altogether.

So she got Devil’s Snare, and Malfoy got Dittany. Peculiar plants, indeed. Should she think anything of receiving such a dangerous plant? Though, if Malfoy got a healing plant, she doubts she should attach much meaning to it.

\--

“You _what_?”

Ms Pince is dragging Harry and Hermione out of the library before they can say more. Maybe wandering around the Hogwarts grounds is a better idea anyway. They won’t be surrounded by others, Harry is allowed to yell, and the fresh, chilly air definitely does a better job of keeping them awake.

“I have been having Occlumency lessons,” she repeats, this time leaving Professor Snape’s name out.

“You’re mental,” Harry says, sounding too much like Ron. “Absolutely mental.”

She frowns. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

He straightens up then, as though the mere mention of that incident is an offence. “I didn’t mean it,” he defends himself. “I would never think you would actually go to Snape-”

“Professor Snape,” she corrects him, automatically.

“Go to _him_ , and ask for it.” They stare at each other for a moment, standing still. She doesn’t look at him, but stares at Hagrid’s hut, which is visible in the distance. Harry shakes his head slowly. “And I certainly never ever would believe that Sn- that _he_ , would agree.”

She shrugs, and they continue walking. “Either way,” she tries to continue casually, “I think I could very soon start teaching you.”

Harry parts his lips for a moment but then just sighs. Hopefully, he is resigning himself to the idea. She scarcely believes he is jealous of her success, as Harry can hardly be persuaded to accept private lessons from their Potions Master, yet he’s certainly not happy about it either. He just shakes his head again, and runs his hand through his hair. “Is it going that good?”

“It’s okay enough, I guess.” She gestures vaguely, thinking of the tiresome long nights she spends in the dark office. The thought of going back within a few days isn’t exactly pleasant. There are other thoughts on her mind, however. More pressing matters. “Harry, were your nightmares after Occlumency lessons different from before?”

He shakes his head, and her shoulders slump a little. “Not different, no. They were worse, but I know it’s just Voldemort trying to get in- I feel it. Otherwise it’s just memories.”

Harry’s memories, of course, made for perfect nightmare-material of their own. Hermione didn’t have visions of Voldemort. The nightmares she had weren’t memories as much as they were fragments of it, clotted together and distorted.

Harry snorts, looking for a moment as lost in thought as she did. “The headaches are terrible, huh?” They share a look, and finally smile. It feels like it’s been ages. It’s not a happy smile, but there’s understanding and care, and that’s all they need. “The worst really is having Snape in your head. I hated it so much. He would peer into all my memories, and it felt so tainted. He would dig all the way through Cedric’s death and to the dreams of Voldemort and, it’s just,”

Harry stares off in the distance, and the gentle expression is wiped off of his face. Hermione doesn’t answer. She realises though, that Occlumency with Professor Snape is a vastly different thing for the both of them. The memories he brings up in her are mundane, at least compared to the heaviness of death and loss that surrounds Harry’s.

She clasps his hand in hers, squeezing him briefly. “We’re going to be fine.”


	4. What is dark within me, illumine

Every night, instead of sleep, Hermione sinks into a world between dreams and reality. It’s not her place, and not her mind she wanders through, but she is there and there is nowhere else to go.

Dumbledore’s office is looming around her, but something is off. Something is off about Dumbledore too. She stares at the streaks of brown in his beard and the smirk about his lips that dulls out the rest of his face. She thinks she is supposed to see something there. He hums words in the foreign language that she knows is made up of words that are not meant to be heard by her. But the sweet lull of his voice longs to be heard rather than understood, so she hears.

But these wanderings of her mind have only one way out, and as much as she knows there is no other way, she loathes it. She stands perfectly still, stiller than she has ever stood. Her robes weight down on her shoulders but a twist in her guts keeps her from looking at them. They are heavy and cold and clotted and she prays it is mud. Just mud, shimmering faintly on the edges of her sleeves before growing dull and hard. It’s just dirt, dried on her hands and encrusted around her nails. But she knows it’s not, and the more she knows the heavier her robes become. Dumbledore just keeps talking, until his voice merges with the sound of dripping. She can feel the droplets snaking down her hands and onto the floor. She can taste the metallic scent of it coating her tongue.

There is no light, but everything glows. A gust of wind rolls over them, and brings change with it, which slips into place as smoothly as it does in dreams. The air is thick with the scent of soil and salt. The stone walls are bare and cracked, and through those splintered gaps, thousands of beady eyes are pinned on her. Waves crash around them, marring the silence. She inhales, and her mouth fills with the taste of rust and bile. Her body moves, although she thinks it might not be hers at all, and she bows down, pushed lower and lower by the silence, until her nose almost touches the floor. Her eyes see only black boots, and a pale, faceless reflection in them.

“Yes, my Lord.”

 

* * *

Christmas inches closer timidly this year. Its merry spirits are trapped in the glittering ornaments and hearty meals, coming out in small mouthfuls. Only by lunch does the Great Hall reach its usual level of commotion. Hermione sits next to Harry, and they sink away, not unhappily, in the sea of faces and chatter and laughter.

They skip History. She can’t bring herself to tell Harry how every part of her screams to return to class. No, Binns won’t notice. No, they won’t miss out on anything because Ron promised to take notes (which is scarcely a comforting thought to Hermione). And no, they’re not being careless. They’re being responsible, finally, because it is their duty to save lives. Harry’s mind wanders far beyond the walls of Hogwarts, and she wishes she could keep him here a little longer. Because out there they will have to draw their wands, and it will last until Death is content.

The Room is spacy and cold. She shivers, but she thinks heat would come and steal her consciousness away. A thick, warm carpet covers the floor. They stand in the middle, face to face, and she tries to focus. She inhales deeply and for a moment she expects someone else standing before her. In that fluttering moment, Harry’s face is too young, and his skin too dark, and his eyes too green.

 “Close your eyes.”

He closes his eyes.

“And then?”

“And then close your mind.”

“How?”

She thought of this. She worked it out through sleepless nights. There’s a list at the bottom of her nightstand with hundreds of ways to clear your mind. If only she had it with her, then it could actually have been of use. Her own head feels stuffed with cotton, her thoughts sinking right through it. “Think of a place,” she says, “A very quiet place.”

He thinks. His face looks oddly calm. She wants to close her eyes too but she’s afraid they’ll both slip away into themselves.

“Like a garden?”

“Somewhere you will be all alone.”

A place to be all alone. It’s an odd thing to ask, because lately loneliness has crept behind them into nearly any room, loyal as a shadow.

“Like a lake?”

She thinks of algae and the greenly tinted mirror of water. She sees the reflection of a starry sky and hears the long howl of wind that stirs neither water nor sand. She feels salt-encrusted rocks underneath her skin and hears gulls crying in the distance. The taste of rust and salt coats her tongue.

“Yeah,” she says, “Like a lake.”

“And then?”

“Stay there.”

“And then?”

“Open your eyes.”

His eyes are green but his lake is white. Frozen over. There are trees flanking it, tall and greyish and solemn. They sway but there is no wind. A thin coat of snow clings to the earth, and the cold burns through her feet. Harry’s lake is patched and marred with lines and cracks. But it’s still. Perfectly still.

“Stay here.”

She draws forth a figure from the trees, a memory etched into the shadows. Harry’s resistance flickers and the silhouette is stretched across the snow. Then a man steps out of the silhouette, swiftly and smoothly as if he were called, and he stand with them because Harry can’t push him away. The memory of Dumbledore smiles at them, oblivious to where he is.

“You will find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”

The trees bend and mend into walls. All around them, the snow darkens to stone. The water of the lake thaws, and laps at their feet. She feels the chain of a necklace brushing her legs. It’s a locket, drifting quietly and shimmering brilliantly. A single ‘S’ is engraved onto it. Harry reaches for it.

“Stay here.” Her voice ripples through the water.

 “Lemon drop?” The flickering memory of Dumbledore says, holding out an empty hand. And then he says something about prongs riding and fathers being alive, and the tide embraces him and he walk away peacefully with it. The two of them remain, watching until his head submerges and the lake stills again. Their feet are buried in snow, but it’s not so cold anymore. Harry is holding the locket in his hands and says, “I keep seeing this through other eyes.” It slithers between his fingers and out of his hands, and before it touches the snow it’s gone. The trees shudder, but remain upstanding.

The world tilts and she lets herself fall out of Harry’s mind. She isn’t quite sure how she ends up on the floor but Harry’s there too. They’re both awake and they both remain quiet for a while.

Her head feels lighter than it has in days, so pleasantly light. She turns to stare at Harry, who turns his head to stare back. The room is warm and the fluffy carpet even softer than it was before. He sighs, contently, and she cracks a smile. “Not bad, Mr Potter.”

He snorts. “Thanks, Professor Granger.”

No bed ever felt as inviting as the floor does now. Harry yawns and stretches and she can’t suppress a yawn either. He rolls over on his side to look at her. “Nap?” The flames of the room are dark red and slumber catches up with her before she can even answer.

She wakes up abruptly. She is more awake then she can remember being and the sensation is glorious. The walls are bare but then she blinks and the room show her a clock, which tells her she has ten minutes until her private lessons with Professor Snape. Next to her, Harry is snoring peacefully. She nudges him awake and he hides underneath covers that she doesn’t remember appearing.

“Get up,” she snickers, and hits him over the head with one of the many pillows that have huddled around them.

“You go,” he finally says, with a deep sigh. “I’ll come later. Promise I won’t stay too long.”

She would press the matter but her mind is too clear. In her sleep, her thoughts unfurled into plans, and now she has a Potions Master to see. The Room lets her slip out unseen. She only passes one other student, but Malfoy takes no notice of her. She figures that, unless he needs to see Harry, the Room will keep them separated.

At night, winter sneaks stealthily through Hogwarts. The castle moves about her, ushering her down, where the windows grow smaller and smaller, until only candles light the way. The flames move skittishly; the hands of unseen winds haunting them. For a moment she stands still, and catches a whispering. She looks around her many times, but the hallways are so empty she could be all alone in Hogwarts. The thought sends a shiver down her spine. Only the hushed voices are there. She heard them before, and several others have too, but most don’t. Some say they’re the voices of the past and some say of the future. She never believed in Gods or divination but she believes in magic, and sometimes the line is very, very thin. She keeps still, afraid her breathing might give her away, and that they’ll scatter away from her. She leans closer and closer, until her head touches the ice cold stones. The walls whisper into her ear. _He’s waiting_ , they say, _don’t hesitate_.

She knocks on the wooden door. The sound startles her, and blows away the whispers of the walls into deafening silence. The door clicks open on its own. Professor Snape’s office is, for once, cast in amber. A rare fire is lit, blowing the hot scent of burning wood across the room.

He says something about her state and for the first time she thinks she might mean her answer. “I’m fine.” For a moment there is nothing, and she thinks he might say more but he doesn’t.

There’s the black of his eyes, and she almost leans into it as he dips into her head. She doesn’t fight him, embraces his presence and it feels a little too good. A wave of anger enters her through him. Or maybe it’s not anger. He snaps out of her, and as he leaves her mind he slams the invisible door behind him so hard it shakes her body.

“If you’re not inclined to even try, I must ask you to return to your chambers.” His mouth is tight. She stares at it because his eyes are too hard and she can’t leave now.

“No,” she says, and her mind flutters with everything. All that she wants to explain is suddenly too complex and veiled. She doesn’t know how or why but it’s _there_ and she that’s all she really knows. That’s all she needs him to know. That place where one mind merges with another, willingly.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t explain it, but I can show it to you” Her eyes don’t leave him, and she can feel the resistance behind his. “Do it again, and, just,” She leaves the sentence between them. He glances her up and down and she wonders if he thinks her mad. Not mad, she wants to say, but then she would have to say what else it is and there’s no saying it, only feeling.

And then he slips back into her mind, stealthily and softly, although she left the door wide open for him. He darts nimbly through her head, and everywhere he passes, his presence sinks in. Now that she isn’t fighting him, she feels it more sharply than ever. Wherever he goes, his shadow remains.

Then he stops, finally, and she takes him to her own, mossy lake. There’s a floating feeling, as if she’s in between him and herself. He’s there too, impossibly close. And she can see how he bleeds, more clearly than ever. His mind bleeds, on her sands and on her rocks and on her muddy, rippling water. His memories ooze out of him, staining her lake until she sees Dumbledore’s head emerging from the water again. He is younger now, rough strokes of brown through his beard and crisp blue eyes that dull the rest of his face.

And then the oozing turns into a flooding.

They’re standing in the Headmaster’s office. He says nothing but there are tears clinging to his cheeks and to his beard. She can understand the words he speaks but they are not meant for her, and she tries with all her might not to hear them.

They’re standing in a cave. Where Dumbledore stood now stands a thin man, shaking with excitement or maybe with madness. The air is heavy with salt and his voice is drowned by the crashing of waves. She thinks she will bow to his black boots, but her body is hers and it’s not there.

They’re standing in a living room, and there are two dead bodies and a Christmas tree on the floor. Ornaments are scattered around them. An old man is on his knees, clinging onto Snape’s robes. “Severus, please don’t,” he pleads. And everything makes perfect sense.

She falls back into her body, so heavily that everything goes black.

She blinks, swaying within herself. Her body lies sprawled on the floor, barely containing her fluttering soul. He is close, she can feel him, although she doesn’t know how. For long moments he is scarcely more than a black figure hovering over her. Flames paint the room in amber, and she thinks she might be back in the Room of Requirement.

He kneels beside her and speaks but her head refuses to hear. Or maybe the castle is whispering to her again. His hands cradle her head and the room spins lazy circles around them. Her eyelids fall, but her heartbeat pulses painfully hard in her chest. There’s the rim of a cup against her lips, and stickily sweet liquid filling her mouth. His low voice is so near that he must be speaking directly into her head.

 

* * *

She slips from his mind like sand, and like sand her magic is blown across the room. Jars ring and some shatter. He doesn’t know how or when he collapsed, but he is on the floor, and in the seconds he can’t will his body to move, he can feel her magic thrumming through him like static electricity. She is lying not far from him, body very still and magic running all over the room.

He stands up briskly, and shudders as he waves his hand through the air. The sweep of his own magic cuts through hers and everything becomes very, very quiet. He kneels at her side, catches her brown eyes, lit brightly, too brightly for his dark room. His hands shake as they pluck the small vial from his pocket, and he pours the gooey potion past her lips. _Slowly_ , he tells himself, _and breathe_. Her eyelids lower, but even behind closed eyes he can feel her piercing gaze, holding him. There is a gaping hole in his mind, and he can feel her presence right through it. He feels very naked and very vulnerable and very afraid. _Breathe_ , he commands himself, but his throat is tight and his mouth dry. _Breathe, for fuck’s sake_.

He thinks of Weepey, and must have said the name out loud because thin air breaks and there he is. Magic hangs heavy in his room, like exhaust. The stupid elf bows its stupid head and Severus snaps at him, although he forgets his words as soon as they’re out.

He paces up and down his office, repeating _stupid elf_ in his head long after he forgets the meaning of the words. Even in her absence, his hands tremble, so he crosses them tightly across his chest.

They say Occlumency and Legilimency don’t go together in one person. That you can’t bunker yourself up and at the same time march out into someone else’s territory. His thoughts feel like liquid in his head. They have his mother’s voice and he’s not sure why. She never told him these things. But she told him other things, like keep your head above the water and don’t ever mix alcohol with emotions.

But he’s thirty-five, or maybe older, and he will do as he goddamn pleases. He plucks a bottle of whiskey – yes, the regular one – from his shelves. He wants a glass but remembers dropping it, remembers the tremors that sometimes seize his hands, and he wants to stop remembering just for a while. He pours himself a teacup of whiskey that he drinks too fast. He never liked whiskey. Just like his father. That’s exactly the reason why he gulps down another mouthful. It’s bitter and stinging and the only alcohol that can cloud his mind without stifling him in memories.

But then his mark flares and he thinks a little piece of him shatters but it’s just the teacup. His body shakes and he sits down on the floor and rocks himself back and forth. _Not tonight_ , he tells himself, maybe out loud, maybe because he needs someone to say it to him, say anything. The buzz of dark magic rings through his veins. He presses his hands against his eyes. Maybe the whiskey wasn’t such a good idea, his mother tells him dryly. Maybe it wasn’t, he replies. So he sits there, for god knows how long, bracing his legs and hiding his face and rocking himself back and forth. Like a big child without parents, only he’s old and drunk and his arm is aflame with past mistakes.

The office suffocates him and his own rooms no less, so he spends the night wandering through the hallways. Shadows creep after him, from corner to corner. Echoes of whispers run through the castle like mice. He catches their tails. Talk of the sleepless and their dreams. Hogwarts only ever speaks to those who need it hear it, and he thinks that maybe this time he’ll admit to needing to hear something, anything, even if it comes from old stones. But the walls laugh and when he presses his ear against them they are nothing more than neatly stacked old stones.

The back door creaks as he pushes it open. Outside, in the crisp and cold night, he can finally breathe again. He closes the door behind him and turns him back to the castle. Stones and ghosts of the past never told him much. But there are other ways to speak with the ancient, earthly magic.

The lake is quiet, pulled low with the absence of the moon. He sits down in the snow, just a few inches from the water. He is shivering, but it’s just the cold, and just the cold he can deal with. He thinks of the lake he saw in her mind, but it seems much further away now. A few patches of ice cling to the edges, but otherwise he can hear the gentle roll of the waves. He closes his eyes and the night holds its breath.

Years have passed since he listened to the water. Even more since his mother showed it to him. Her voice carries just above the winds. _Let the water have you as you are, Severus. Naked you were born from it and naked it remembers you._

He takes off his shoes. Takes off his robes and everything underneath. The water bites in his toes. He hisses, but stand up and inches forward until it tickles his ankles.

_Pain means you’re alive. When it stops hurting, you need to step away._

He closes his eyes, and inhales the wet air. Snowflakes dance down leisurely from the skies and he thinks he might welcome the numbness. The lake pulls him in, slowly, little step by little step, until it reaches his stomach. His bluish fingertips graze over the mirror-like surface. The water feels coarse and curly around his fingers. And then, in that fluttering moment between pain and numbness, the water fades into a tickle of magic, which kisses his forehead and trickles into his head. When he opens his eyes, the surface of the lake is a perfectly flat mirror, reflecting the starred sky in hues of green and purple. _You don’t have to be alone_ , someone says, a voice between his mother and Lily.

He stumbles out of the water, collapses into a layer of frost that has hardened the snow. He pants and shakes and gropes for his wand. The heat sizzles from his fingertips through his wand and wraps itself around him. The snow turns to droplets, clinging to his trembling skin. He throws his robes over himself and casts heating charm after heating charm.

He has no memory of how he ends up in his bed. The blankets are burning and he sinks away in them. His bed sways gently and he can feel the tide rising slowly outside as he drifts into sleep.

 

* * *

Hermione tries hard not to see the glances Ron throws her way during Herbology. When their eyes cross, she smiles. She doesn’t know why, because every time she does his face lights up and her stomach sinks a little lower.

“You look a little queasy, Granger, is it the spinach between his teeth or the fact that he has more dirt on his hands than in his pot?”

She wants to say “a bit of both” but he’s Malfoy and she’s Granger, so she just shrugs.

“I honestly thought you’d have jumped on him by now,” he says, conversationally, “What’s wrong, Granger? Not feeling like becoming the next Weasley brood mare?”

There’s scarcely a second in between the end of the sentence leaving his mouth and the handful of dirt rushing into it. She doesn’t put down her wand, doesn’t mind if they know it was her even if it isn’t exactly model student behaviour. Malfoy coughs and retches and spits out the dirt. Harry and Ron are at her side in a moment and she only regrets her actions when Ron puts his arm protectively around her.

“I can handle it.” She shrugs him off, looking hard at Malfoy so that she doesn’t have to see anything else.

Harry glances at her and then at Malfoy, like he wants to say something but he’s afraid to do so.

“What, going to set your dogs on me now?” Malfoy manages to sound condescending while chocking.

“You’re lucky it was dirt and not-”

“Hermione,” Harry shushes her, “You know Professor Sprout gives lower grades to students who misbehave, right?”

She doesn’t know when Harry started to care about her top marks or when he had ever discouraged her from giving Malfoy a taste of what she had in store for him, but she lets it slide. “Fine, but if he keeps talking shit he’s going to get shit shoved right back up where it came from.”

Malfoy smirks. Harry and Ron retreat. Hermione is left with both her hands in dirt and one pissed off heap of Devil’s Snare.

 

* * *

 

Sorry for not updating in a while, college is happening again. I almost wanted to discontinue writing this, because I've changed my writing style a little bit and I didn't like where this story was going. Instead, I just continued writing this story how I would write it now, and I'll take it where I want it to go, regardless of what I had previously planned for it. Do tell me if you guys like where it's headed. I'm leaving many things open and seeing where they take me.

**To anyone who comments: You bring joy to my life and you are the reason I reopen Word and continue writing.**


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